Chapter 23 The Whispering Statue by Carolyn Keene
DRAPED IN WHITE
For some minutes Nancy was too occupied with her own particular set of troubles to pay much attention to the loud, excited conversation of Mitza and Miss Morse. As she squirmed this way and that, trying to loosen her hands, she gathered in a general way that Mitza was trying to reinstate himself in the old woman’s graces. Failing in that, he began to threaten her.
“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes,” he said harshly. “Let’s end the pretense. After the way you acted when the police were here I know you’re not as innocent as you’ve pretended. You probably have a record.”
Nancy was unable to catch Miss Morse’s reply. She lost the thread of the conversation entirely as she worked at the cords which bound her hands. They loosened a trifle, and she grew hopeful that soon she would succeed in freeing herself.
Presently one of Miss Morse’s remarks captured Nancy’s attention. It was of such startling significance that she gave up her efforts to escape and listened intently.
“Very well, Mitza,” the old woman said tremulously, “I am tired of your everlasting nagging. I’ll tell you the truth, which will not be pleasant to hear. But you have brought it upon yourself.”
“What do you mean?” the man demanded.
“Just this. I’ve known from the first that you thought me an innocent dupe, but I had reasons of my own for pretending that I didn’t.”
“What’s your game?” Mitza asked sharply.
“I have no game. I am an old woman now, and life doesn’t hold much for me any more.”
“I don’t see what you are trying to tell me. I doubt if you know yourself.”
“My name is not really Miss Morse,” the woman went on patiently, “nor is yours Joe Mitza.”
“You’re wrong there. My name is Mitza.”
“No,” the woman denied, “you just think it is. If you will listen instead of interrupting I’ll try to tell you everything.”
“Who are you?” Mitza demanded, disregarding her suggestion.
“My name is Bernice Conger. I am the daughter of the former owner of this house. Once I lived here happily and had everything a girl could ask for, but I chose to run away from home when I was eighteen years of age. I eloped with a worthless man who turned out to be a crook.”
“What is that to me?” Mitza asked impatiently.
“Wait, I am coming to that. My husband was always in trouble with the law, but as I loved him and didn’t want to give him up I worked with him. We pulled several deals together, so that in the end I was involved as deeply as he was. We smuggled goods across the Canadian border and defrauded several individuals.”
“That was hazardous,” Mitza said sneeringly. “I’ll bet they sent you up for that.”
“Yes,” the old woman answered wearily. “My husband served ten years in prison. I received a lighter sentence.”
“I still don’t see what this story has to do with me.”
“You are my son!”
“Your son?” Mitza gasped in a shocked voice.
“So it startles you? I was astonished too when I first saw you on the train, but the resemblance to your father is marked.”
“You must be mistaken,” Mitza muttered slowly. “I couldn’t be your son.”
“I am not mistaken. I placed you in an institution when you were seven years of age. I sent money regularly for your care, but I never went to see you.”
“What was the name of the place?” Mitza asked.
“The Elmwood Home for Children.”
Miss Morse’s answer left the man somewhat shaken, for he knew well enough that his early years had been spent in that institution. When but sixteen years of age he had run away, shifting for himself and learning to get on in the world by his own resourcefulness.
“I always hoped that you would grow up to be a fine man and go straight,” the old woman continued in a voice tense with emotion. “I ruined my own life. I wanted you to make something of yours. I didn’t want you ever to know that your parents had served time in a prison.
“I had no intention of revealing myself to you. Then through sheer accident we met that day on the train. As soon as I heard your voice I knew you were my son. I encouraged you to become friendly, for I could not resist the temptation of meeting you again.”
“So you tricked me——”
“I shouldn’t call it that. You were my son, and even if I have made a horrible botch of my own life, I have feelings the same as other mothers. I can’t tell you what a blow it was to me when I discovered that you had inherited your father’s weakness, his love for easy money.”
“Where is my father?” Mitza asked harshly
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years. Sometimes I think he is dead.”
As the talk went on, Nancy learned more of the strange, depressing life which Miss Morse had led. Since leaving prison the woman had been hounded by the police so that many times, in order to escape questioning, she had been compelled to resort to some sort of a disguise. She was skilled in the use of make-up, so it was not difficult for her to pass as a woman in her thirties. The loss of her suitcase containing the costume and wig had frightened her, and she was greatly relieved when it had been returned to her by Nancy Drew.
Joe Mitza had received a rude shock when he learned the identity of the woman he had attempted to cheat. The story depressed him, yet he could not doubt its truth. If he felt the slightest feeling of affection for the pathetic old creature he did not disclose it by his words.
Nancy had heard enough of the conversation to comprehend a great many things which previously had mystified her. She understood now why Miss Morse had resented the girl’s attempts to expose Mitza. And the woman’s presence in the old house no longer was baffling. The property actually belonged to her, and doubtless she had kept a key since that day many years before when she had left home.
Nancy’s fingers were not idle as she listened to the amazing tale. Presently she had freed one arm. Then it became easy for her to loosen her other bonds. Next she jerked off the gag.
Pushing the door open a tiny crack, Nancy peered into the living room. Mitza and his mother were at the opposite end, their backs toward the closet. They were talking so earnestly that they did not hear the girl.
Nancy thought that possibly she might reach the corridor without being seen. She stole noiselessly from the closet, halting in panic as a board creaked beneath her foot.
Neither Mitza nor Miss Morse seemed aware of the girl’s presence. The woman was weeping now, and her son berated her for being such a sentimental fool.
Nancy felt sorry for Miss Morse, but having learned the truth, she knew there was nothing she could do to help the woman. Mitza and his mother must solve their own difficulties. For the moment her sole thought was to escape from the house.
The girl’s hand touched the corner of a dusty sheet which covered one of the chairs. Impulsively she wrapped it about her slender figure, and not unlike a ghost glided silently across the room to the hall.
Reaching the open air, Nancy caught her breath in surprise. Since she had entered the house the wind had risen steadily. It whipped the sheet and almost tore it from her grasp. The sea was running high, and she could hear great waves pounding against the sand bank on which the old house rested.
Nancy was tempted to hasten back to the car where she knew Bess and George would be awaiting her anxiously. However, she did not wish to leave the scene until after Mitza had departed.
“He should be coming out pretty soon,” she thought, casting a speculative glance at the swift-moving clouds overhead.
She wondered how much longer the storm would hold off. The tall trees near the place were waving wildly in the wind, and at any moment a limb might snap off and come crashing down. The site was a most dangerous one.
Nancy stood hesitating an instant; then, with the wind tearing at her garments, she crossed the garden toward the Whispering Girl statue. Where three figures previously had stood, but two now remained.
“What a pity to ruin the group,” the girl thought. Her reflection ended abruptly when she heard a door slam shut.
“It’s Mitza!” she told herself.
Nancy scarcely had time to hide. Wrapping the sheet tightly about her, she stepped up to the empty pedestal to become a living statue in the Whispering Girl group.
“I hope Mitza comes this way,” Nancy chuckled grimly as she assumed her pose. “If he does I’ll certainly——”